


Moments in Time

by San



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/San/pseuds/San
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments in the lives of John and Simon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New York, New York

"This one."

Simon pointed at a photo in the agency's book. John glanced at it over the top of his glasses and laughed.

"Not a chance, mate. She's married."

"And?"

John's grin got even more feral. "And besides, I got to know the bride before her nuptials."

Simon's expression was mingled irritation and awe; the combination wasn't entirely attractive.

"Damn, Johnny, is there a bird in this book you haven't managed to shag?"

"Not too many." John shrugged, blushing but still grinning.

"My, how the shy boy has changed."

"Don't encourage him, Simon," Nick said from behind his auction catalogue. "He'll only catch something, and then where will we be?"

"On antibiotics, probably, the lot of us."

Nick cocked an eyebrow at their laughter and disappeared back into the book.

"Come on, Nick," Simon chortled, "just because you think settling down's the answer..."

"I don't remember being asked a question."

"Just ignore him," John suggested, pulling the book off Simon's lap and twisting it so he could look at upright faces. "It'll make it easier for him to feel superior if he thinks we aren't paying attention."

A balled-up piece of paper bounced off the back of John's head. He kept flipping through the women, finally pausing to tap one face.

"This one," he said, pushing the book back at Simon. "I definitely have not slept with her."

The singer deftly caught the book and inspected the picture. "Someone you'd certainly remember."

Nick's curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he'd gotten up from his chair to look over Simon's shoulder. When he saw the picture, he burst out laughing.

"Tell him how you're so sure," he instructed John, whose blush had deepened. Simon tilted his head, and Nick's gaze was challenging.

"She turned me down," he said, grin gone sheepish.

The phone rang. Nick walked over and picked it up. Simon studied John.

"Turned you down?"

John shrugged, leaning back in the chair. "She said, 'no, thank you,' and hung up on me."

"Tough nut."

"Maybe."

Nick hung up the phone. "That's my car," he said. John obediently stood up and walked him to the door. Simon was still studying the picture when he came back.

"What do you think?"

"That's a broad question."

"Huh." Simon laughed, eyes still on the photograph in front of him. "About him. Her. Them."

John took a moment to light a cigarette. "I think that they're both very strong-willed. And that it will last as long as both those wills are focused on making it last." He exhaled a long stream of smoke, tossing the pack over to Simon's waiting hand. "So, I'll give them four or five years."

"That long?"

"You know what he’s like. He'll fight for it even after he knows its over. Particularly this, where everyone's told him he's making a mistake."

Simon rolled his eyes. "Point." He lit his own smoke. "Do you think he is?"

"I couldn't say. And I've been very careful NOT to say, honestly. It isn't worth the argument."

"You're not friends?"

John made a face. "Sometimes, being friends with him means not saying what you're really thinking. Honesty not the best policy." He looked at Simon, lips pursed slightly. "You know that as well as I do."

"Nice to get confirmation, though." Simon looked back down at the book, absently tapping ashes off his cigarette into the ashtray. "I think I'm going to see if she'll talk to me."

John smiled. "You do that."

"Bet she will."

Raised eyebrow. "Bet she won't."

"How much?"

"Mm. The usual?"

Simon crushed out his cigarette, grinning. "Sounds fair. Conditions?"

John leaned back into the couch, rubbing at his jaw. "First, she has to say more to you than 'no, thanks' before she hangs up."

"Okay..."

"Second," he held up two long fingers, "she has to agree to actually go on a date with you. Somewhere out of the house."

Simon nodded, also leaning back, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. John's tongue tapped at the corner of his mouth.

"And?"

"And lastly, all this has to happen without Claire throwing you out."

"Ooh, that's hardly fair, that last."

John shrugged. "Those are my conditions, for this one. I'd have made that third that you have to shag her, but..."

Simon's grin broadened as he finished John's sentence. "...but not with these stakes, eh, Johnny?"

John just rubbed his thumb beneath his lower lip, grinning crookedly.

"Are you trying to draw attention to your mouth?"

"Huh?" John paused, cigarette halfway to ashtray, and gawped at Simon.

"No, of course not," Simon answered himself, stubbing out his own smoke and coming around the coffee table. "Nothing nearly so calculated. Not from you." He reached out and ran his own thumb over John's lower lip, tip just brushing John's teeth.

John licked at his lower lip, caught himself and closed his mouth abruptly. He flushed again, though this time the color had precious little to do with embarrassment.

"We've a bet on," he commented.

Simon leaned in, grinning. "So?"

John caught the front of Simon's t-shirt with his hand, neither pulling closer nor pushing away. "So maybe you're gonna have to win the bet before anything gets done with my mouth."

Simon pouted. "You wouldn't make me wait like that."

John tossed his bangs out of his eyes, brows raised.

"Would you?"

John made him wait another few seconds before using his grip on Simon's shirt to pull him closer. Their lips met; the first kiss short and fierce, the second lingering. John's tongue teased the inside of Simon's mouth with light brushes before they came apart, seeking fresh air.

The hint of a smile, the tiniest quirk of an eyebrow, and John caught Simon's arms before their usual struggle had a chance to take place. He bore Simon backward on the couch, freeing one hand and sliding it down to Simon's crotch. Simon groaned as John massaged his erection through his jeans, the coarse fabric adding another sensory element.

John kissed him, deeply, fingers finally undoing belt and buttons. Simon's hands joined John's in removing his pants; John pinched the pale skin of Simon's hip and laughed.

"What?"

"Do you ever wear underwear?" John asked, fingers deftly scooping under Simon’s balls.

"Only when there's cameras in the dressing – ooh." Simon's head tilted back, mouth falling open in a moan of pleasure as John pressed a moistened finger into him. John's other hand was still engaged with Simon's balls; Simon worked a hand between their bodies to stroke his own cock.

"No," John said, catching Simon's hands and pulling them up to pin them against the arm of the couch. Simon whimpered, as much from the cessation of John's attentions as from the new pressures of their changed positions.

"Dammit, Johnny..."

"Careful," John said, pausing to nip at Simon's jaw, "or I will make you wait."

Simon's protest was smothered in another kiss. Their groins ground together. John released Simon's forearms to remove his own pants. Skin on skin galvanized them both and there was another moment of struggle. The coffee table was overturned with a crash, and then John had Simon bent over the couch.

He bit Simon's shoulder as he pressed slowly into him; restraining himself just enough to avoid leaving a bruise. He paused, capturing Simon's hand again and wrapping them both around Simon's throbbing cock before settling them into a rhythm. He took his time building them up, driving Simon to cry out beneath him before reaching his own climax.

John drew them back onto the couch, settling them into a more comfortable position.

"Who calls the shots?"

"You do," Simon answered, drowsily. "At least, until I win the bet."

John's low chuckle was all the response he got - or needed.


	2. April in Paris

"Hey, Simon."

A laugh, through the crackle of the connection. "How do you always know?"

"Time difference. Nobody else would call at this hour."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I wasn't sleeping, anyway." The crack and hiss of a soda being opened.

"Pepsi?"

"Diet Coke, actually. Jon left a six-pack, and I haven't had time to restock."

"Aha."

"No, really. Besides, you would not believe how I spent my evening."

"Oh, yeah?" Disbelief. He could picture the raised eyebrows.

"Jon stopped by, and we worked for a bit, then we decided to go out and see what was happening. Turns out we didn't have to go far - George was throwing one of his bashes."

"Great." Laugh. "And you hadn't heard it?"

"Volume wasn't high enough yet, I guess. Anyway. We joined in, only George had already had too much, and was in the kitchen trying to fill himself with water."

"What?"

"Thought he was a teakettle, apparently. Somehow, I was the one got to talk him down."

"What on earth did you tell him?"

"That's the ironic part, Simon. I don't really remember. I was flying pretty high myself." Sigh. "Still. You two think I have a problem."

Soberly. "You do, Johnny. You're just not that far gone, yet."

Silence.

"You called me up overseas to start a fight?"

Sigh. "No, I called you because Yasmin is working and I was bored."

"Nice to know you're thinking of me. How are things going with her?"

"Just...amazing. She's so...right."

"The great LeBon , struggling with words?"

Only a soft, bemused chuckle answered John.

"Over here the rumor mill has you marrying Claire, you know."

"Married?"

"Well, engaged, anyway."

"I'm shaking my head."

"I rather thought you would be. Claire struck me as an example of 'because they can.'"

"Something like. I thought it might be love, but then..."

"But then Yasmin."

"You're not jealous, Johnny?"

Startled laugh. "No, no jealousy. Envy, maybe, of you. Being that happy."

"Well, she's no more thrilled about Fastnet than you two, so it's not all easy going."

"We've met, remember? I wouldn't expect the to of you to not fight."

"Yeah, well. Is that a rum and Coke yet?"

"Another swallow or two. I have to add something to kill the taste."

"Yep." Pause. "How's Virginia?"

"Gone. Fun while she lasted."

"You don't sound too broken up."

"I'm not. Seeing this new bird, actually. Renee Simonsen ."

"Oh, yeah. Seen her picture. Not bad. Didn't call her from some agency book, did you?"

"No." Sheepish. "Actually, I looked her up 'cause of a picture on this Roxy compilation."

"Say this for Nick."

"What's that?"

"Least he meets his in the flesh first."

"Yeah, but we already know it won't last."

"Still. She your One?"

Shrug. "Maybe. I don't know yet. We've only been out once. Talked for hours, though."

"Well, I toast your new relationship."

"Same to you."

Laugh. "Nice."

"You know what I mean."

"Sure, sure. You know, Claire never did kick me out, Johnny."

Long pause. "Should have known that was on your mind. I can't blow you from here, Simon. Besides, it'd be a bit hard for you to explain, wouldn't it?"

"She's not in the least possessive."

"You haven't told her..."

"No, of course not. There's birds, and there's you."

Sigh.

"We'll see each other soon, you know."

"I doubt we'll have much time. Perhaps a round or two of drinks."

Softly. "We've always been good at making time, Johnny."

"Pun intended?"

"Pun intended."

"We'll see. Andy and I will still have to rehearse, you know, so that's going to take nights."

"You're bringing Tony and Michael?"

"Don't know yet."

Pause, indrawn breath, exhalation.

"Yes. Sometimes it's better just not to ask."


	3. Notorious

"Hello, darling." Nick kissed Yasmin on the cheek. "We weren't expecting to see you here."

"Simon didn't mention I'd be joining you?" She smiled, squeezing his forearm gently. "Of course he didn't. He doesn't know I'm here. I had a bit of time off and thought I'd join you."

"How are you doing?"

"Well. You?"

Nick smiled. "Well enough, given that I haven't seen my daughter in days."

"And your wife?"

He shrugged. "A discussion for another time, I think."

Yasmin nodded, thoughtful. "How about this uncomfortable topic, then: I heard a lot of rumors last night. Evidently John and Simon had a real blowup backstage."

Sigh. "Blowup doesn't even begin to describe it, Yas . I thought they were going to come to blows, actually. Rumors of a breakup of the band are just that, though. Rumors."

"Is John still mad about the wedding?"

"When he remembers." Nick's lips twisted. "Wine?"

"No, thank you. Remembers?"

"John's…addictions have gotten quite a bit worse since Renee turned him down. He was talking about leaving the band in New York; I got him to record and he's back in the swing of things now." Nick poured himself a glass of the red that had been breathing and absently swirled it in his class. "He was angry at Simon over the wedding, he was angry with Andy for counter-suing us…he was angry at everyone except Renee. And, oddly enough, you."

"I would have thought he'd be furious with me."

Nick shook his head, narrowing his eyes to study her. "No. He thinks you're good for Simon; he was lost when you miscarried."

"Really."

"Come, Yasmin, don't tell me you're jealous."

She shook her head. "It isn't that. There's no point in being jealous of that relationship; it was in place long before I came along."

"John would love to be a father, Yas . If he can't find someone willing to have his children, you carrying Simon's is the next best thing."

Her lips pursed, and then she nodded. "That makes sense. I'm surprised you haven't asked me why - I know why he won't."

"I always figured you'd tell me when you were ready. Or Julie - but I'd know, either way."

Yasmin sighed. "Of course, part of it was that he was being such a drama queen at the time. I won't deny that. Mostly, though, I didn't think he could take it, Nick. Not so close to Renee turning him down."

"He spent most of that week wasted, yes. Not that it was anything new. And not that we'd share that with anyone but 'family.'"

"Glad to know where I stand."

Nick's smile was tired. "Of course you're family. You make Simon very happy, John approves of you for him, and I find you delightful on a number of levels."

"Is that what they fought about?"

"Simon has lamentable timing," Nick said, finally sipping at his wine. "He tried to talk to John about his coke abuse right before we went on stage. John's not ready to hear it yet, and he's particularly not ready to hear it from Simon. I'd at least have a leg to stand on."

"I've been meaning to talk to him about that."

"Don't bother. Simon's no more ready to listen than John is. Anyway - they both went on stage angry, came off stage furious and I think the only thing that didn't get dragged into the subsequent argument was each other's sexual shortcomings." Sigh. "Both of them have that much self-preservation left, anyway."

"Self-preservation? Is that what you call it?"

Nick tilted his head and smiled at her. "All right. career preservation, then. They've not spoken since, but Duran is not breaking up. Not if I have anything to say about it."

"And you have a great deal to say about it."

"Oh, yes, Yasmin. They may not listen to each other anymore, but they'll both listen to me."

"Or else."

Nick raised his glass to her, eyes cold and face expressionless.


	4. Big Uneasy

"One more club."

Nick nodded, slowly so as to not start his head spinning again. He re-loaded his Polaroid as Sterling tapped on the limo window and gave directions to the driver. The camera sat, heavy on his lap, and he looked across the limo at John.

He could see a patch of stubble beneath John's jaw where he'd missed while shaving that morning, and made a note to get it taken care of before the show. Assuming John made the show at all, given the boneless way his head was lolling back and forth between the seat and Theodore's shoulder.

Last show of the US tour, and they'd been drinking since noon. What were they thinking.

He checked the eye of his lens for scratches, knowing the truth. They weren't; they were too tired or too jazzed or too stoned to care anymore. Their choices got more and more foolish as a tour went on. Always.

And Johnny was far beyond caring.

Theodore looked over at Nick, feeling his gaze, and smirked at him. Nick remained unmoved, pulling up his Polaroid and capturing a moment he wasn't going to want to remember later.

"This' the place," Sterling said, piling out of the limo without waiting for the driver. Nick stood, smoothing his jacket with a nonchalant air. A few fans saw them, but they were oddly subdued; he wondered if it were the New Orleans heat or John's appearance that was keeping them back. He raised his camera and snapped them, as well, and then stepped inside.

They were settled, relatively quickly, in a relatively quiet back room. Theodore dropped John at the table, as he was far too wasted to walk without support. That didn't stop him from raising his glass to his lips. There were a few people with them; he noticed one young man who seemed entirely too interested in John for his peace of mind. Sterling flitted from one group to another, as was his wont; Nick absently snapped away between sips of his vodka.

Somehow John got up, swaying. Theodore, of course, was right there; Nick's eyes narrowed.

"Johnny," he said. The dull brown eyes looked at him without focusing. "She'd hardly approve."

John's response, predictably, was incoherent. Nick suspected it was something along the lines of "fuck her." Which was, he thought, precisely the problem.

Right or wrong, John had been desperately in love with her. Now, she was in Israel. Prelude to a breakup.

Theodore supported John across to the bar; Nick watched half through the lens of the camera as they made their slow progress. The fan who'd been watching John closely leaned against the bar and set one hand on John's waxy cheek; all three of them sighed.

Why keep doing it if it's not fun anymore?

John eventually collapsed back at the table; the fan sat down and introduced himself, and Nick briefly engaged him in conversation. He didn't want to; he'd decided what they really needed was to get back to the hotel, get their shit together, get everything ready for the show. Some of that must have shown on his face, for the fan - whose name he really ought to have caught - seemed to recognize the gentle brush-off, and drifted away.

Nick reluctantly switched to water with a twist of lime, watching for the moment Sterling was ready to get back. He'd shot most of his film when they recessed back to the limo, back to the hotel. At that point, he took over from Theodore, shouldering John's weight.

"You sure?"

Nick favored him with a cool glare. "I think you've done enough for one afternoon."

Theodore laughed and shrugged, and Nick somehow loaded he and John into the elevator, then into John's room. He dropped John on the bed, on his side so there would be no unfortunate accidents before they could end the Stateside dates, and went back to his room. He didn't change, however, just collected his things and brought them back to John's room.

Once there, he dressed John like he was an oversized doll. No sounds of protest came, not even when Nick carefully shaved him, the razor scratching over John's throat with infinite care. Someone else would take care of the rest of preparing John for the stage; Nick took himself to John's bathroom and made his own transformation.

Somehow, they got through the show without botching it. From the fan reaction, in fact, the show went well. Both the crowd and the backstage gathering reaction was much more positive than he'd expected.

He found he couldn't bring himself to care.

Theodore seemed intent on dragging John off to some party or another, and Nick decided he'd had enough. Several short sentences later, he and John were in a limousine headed back to the hotel. John stretched out along the seat with his arm over his eyes, and drew in a deep breath.

"I hate you." Each word dropped, clear as crystal, into the silence.

"That's reassuring." Nick answered. "I thought you might have lost the ability to speak."

The silence returned, more oppressively this time, and remained until they were standing outside John's hotel room door. He'd had to rely on Nick's strength, again. Nick accurately read the pinched look to John's face, and released him so he could use the door frame to support himself. He turned, mouth opening to speak and Nick held up one hand.

"Don't. We're both drunk and it's the end of the tour. I'm not in the mood to deal with whatever hurtful thing you've thought of to say. Go to bed."

He left John gripping the frame, knuckles white, and retreated to his own bed. No sense in dwelling on the negative; and if John could manage his way back out of the hotel he would have earned whatever he wanted.

Still wound with stage high himself, Nick spent some time packing his things away - one less thing to worry about before the flight home. He considered calling Julie, but by the time he'd found the multi-time-zone clock she'd bought him the urge had passed; he finally settled into the bed with a shot for a nightcap and the book he'd been slowly working his way through for the entire tour.

As always, once he'd settled down his exhaustion finally caught up with him and he barely managed to read two pages before he set the book aside and shut off the light.

He was half-drowsing when he heard the soft snikt of the connecting door opening and he shifted over to make room. John slid into the bed, more than half boneless still, and settled with his back to Nick, who wrapped his arms around him. Nick curled up against John, pressing his cheek against John's bony back. His long body trembled; knowing there was no cure for his heartbreak, Nick held him through the shakes until sleep took them both.

\-----

Despite his late-rising habits, Nick had been up long enough to get dressed and finish packing when John finally stirred. He'd also fetched fresh clothing for John and arranged for someone to pack him up.

A soft whimper came from the bed; Nick, not caring for the sun himself, hadn't opened the blackout curtains yet.

"It's not that bright," he said, mildly.

"Fuck you."

"Trash can is by the bed."

John groaned and rolled over, then dragged himself out of the bed and into the bathroom. Nick curled up with a book on the unmade bed and waited. He was a little surprised to hear the shower running; not quite as surprised when he heard John getting sick even over the water. He picked up a corner of toast from the room service tray and nibbled at it, wondering when John had eaten last.

Close to an hour later, John came out of the bathroom in a swirl of steam with a towel trapped around his hip bones. Nick glanced up from his book, grateful he'd arranged a late check-out, and pointed at the clothes he'd laid out carefully on the bed. He couldn't stand to look at John's rail-thin body unclothed any longer than he had to.

"Who packed me up?"

"I had one of the staff do it. I presume Theodore took the matter in hand."

John pulled his shirt down over his head and looked over his shoulder at Nick. His hair, black with the water in it, stuck to his cheek, exacerbating his lack of color.

"You don't like him."

Nick sipped at his tea, not responding until John was fully dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed by Nick's feet.

"In fact, I'd like you to fire him."

"I beg your pardon?" Their eyes met. "He's perfectly efficient." John's mimicry of Nick was nearly flawless; Nick raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, yes. He is that. I still want him fired, John. I won't do it, but I want it done."

"When the tour is done." Nick's jaw set. John read the look, and his eyes narrowed. "You don't get to dictate to me, Nicholas."

"I wouldn't dream of it, *Nigel*. I think you would be much better off if you didn't rely on him quite as much as you do."

"I suppose I should rely on you, instead, since relying on Renee is out of the question."

Nick sighed. "Have I ever once made a decision for you that didn't end up for the best?"

"We're not that young anymore."

"No. Eat something."

John got up and stalked around the room. "Don't order me around."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Honestly, John. You sound like Tatjana."

John turned to face him. Nick held out a point of toast with a faint smearing of jam on it.

John growled, then sat back on the edge of the bed and accepted it, wrinkling his nose. They polished off the tray in silence, Nick eating more than John, and then John sighed.

"When's checkout, anyway?"

"You're already out of your room; they're holding your bags at the front. I arranged a 4 p.m. checkout for myself."

John shook his head. "Hedonist." he said, half-heartedly.

"My flight back to England is at six. I saw no reason to go rushing off, leaving my baggage God knows where, at eleven this morning."

"Particularly when you didn't even wake up until noon."

"You're the one to talk."

"I would have been awake, if I'd needed to be."

"I haven't changed my mind, John."

John sighed, and bent down to pull on his shoes.

"Blow me off if you like, but his 'efficiency' is no good for you." Nick rubbed his thumb over his own temple. "Have you heard from her at all?"

John shook his head. "I don't think she can reach out from the kibbutz, so I probably won't until she gets back. You think proposing was a mistake?" he asked, with a weak attempt at a smile.

"No. I just think we both were mistaken about what she wanted." Nick's lips curled. "I think my proposal was a mistake."

John shrugged, then rubbed his face with his hands. "I would do anything for her."

"No."

John looked at Nick, startled at the contradiction. Nick made his smile as gentle as he could.

"You wouldn't give this up for her, John. Fame, traveling, being in Duran, music..." Nick made a vague gesture with his hand as John lay back on the bed. "Drugs."

"Don't start."

Nick folded his napkin and placed it tidily on the tray. He said nothing, simply studying John's profile, lips faintly pursed.

"Are you going back to France?"

Sighing, John rolled onto his side so he could look at Nick.

"Don't have anyplace else to go, now do I?"

"You could."

"Oh, yes. I'll just move on to Warren's flat in London, shall I? Or perhaps I should come listen to you and Julie tear into each other. Or maybe Yasmin and Simon would welcome me with open arms."

"You never know with Simon," Nick said, evenly, then shook his head. "Poor Johnny, alone and unloved in the world. You're a big boy, and perfectly capable of getting your own place in London, you know."

"What's the point? I need to stay out of the country for a while yet, anyway."

Nick shrugged, and sighed. John was talking 'round the issue again; he was sick of it. He let the silence stretch, until John couldn't bear it any longer and spoke.

"I don't know what to do about the problem."

"Start by firing Theodore."

"Nick -"

"Don't ask my advice, then, if you don't want it."

"Fuck."

Nick raised an eyebrow, but couldn't hold back a wry smile.

John stood. "I'll see you in England."

"John?"

John paused by the door.

"See that you eat something over the next couple of weeks."

John rolled his eyes and left the room.

Nick called for the bellboy, grateful to be headed back to England.

\-----

"Hey. I heard."

Nick looked across the keyboard at John, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the dilated pupils. He shook his head.

"Yes. Telegraph, telephone or tell Simon, I suppose."

John shrugged, settling the bass strap on his shoulder. Simon was deep in conversation with their sound guy; microphone problems. Again.

"Actually, it was tell Yasmin."

"Julie did rather do that, yes." Nick sighed, stroking one key lightly enough to not make a sound. "I think I would have preferred a note."

"Are you okay?"

"Are you?"

John snorted. "I'm fucking great."

"Yes." Nick looked over at Warren, who was playing with his wa-wa pedal and watching Simon. "To be perfectly honest, John, I've been expecting her to pull something like this for long enough that I'm not even sure I'm dismayed by it."

"Bullshit."

"Probably."

John noodled about a bit on the bass; Nick quadruple-checked his programming.

"Stop fucking around, you two," Simon said, poking John in the shoulder. Nick gave him a filthy look. "We've a sound check to get through."

"Oh, yes, Simon, and you're such a workaholic." Nick shook his head. "Where were we?"

They picked up from the point that Simon had protested the feedback from his mike. An hour later, sound check settled, Nick gathered his overcoat and prepared to leave.

John caught his elbow. "Where are you headed?"

"I don't know. I thought I might eat before the show."

"Eat, or drink?" John's eyes were bright, but knowing.

"Precious little difference. Perhaps I should have said I was going to 'fortify myself.'"

" Hm ." John was slinging his own jacket on; Nick wondered that he didn't want something heavier. "Where are we going?"

"Who says I want company?"

"Who says you have a choice?"

Nick shook his head. "I presume you have a suggestion."

John shrugged. "There's an Indian place up the block."

Nick followed him, wanting to protest and knowing perfectly well John was not about to leave him alone.

They were quickly settled into a booth in the half-lit restaurant.

"Have you ever been in one of these places that had decent lighting?" Nick asked.

John shook his head. "Are we that interested in looking at each other?"

"No, I suppose not." The laugh slipped out before Nick could stop it. "At the rate things are going, however, that may end up our only option."

"Don't even joke about that."

"I love you as well. There are still fans who'd love to see it."

"Maybe we can sell tickets." John's tone was bitter, his face hidden behind the menu. "Probably sell better than the album."

Nick picked up his own menu. "I see Theodore is still with us."

"Don't start."

"Relax, John, I've not the energy to argue."

"Why bring it up, then?"

"I don't know. It gives us something to talk about, other than dismal album sales and general tour bitching."

"They cut us from Top of the Pops."

"Yes."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me. But there's nothing that can be done about it, John. It's about the money, and we're just not bringing it in."

John dropped his menu on the table with a flat slap. "Maybe we should call it a day."

"Is that what you want?" Nick set his own menu down and folded his hands on top of it.

"Would it save your marriage?"

"Probably not. It might save your relationship."

John shook his head. "I doubt it." Nick could tell by the way his mouth twisted that the words were bitter indeed. "I think she's done with me. It hurts. A lot."

Nick's eyes narrowed. "That's shockingly rational of you."

"Feelings are good, right?" John said, dismissively. "No, I just give up. She broke me. I'm done with it all."

"Except Simon."

John rolled his eyes and grinned ferally at Nick. "That's just fucking. You know perfectly well he's not serious about anything, least of all me. Maybe Yasmin."

"What, exactly, is it that we're not talking about, John?"

John paused; their waitress chose that moment to interrupt them. Nick selected a bottle of wine for the both of them and they placed their orders; he was a little surprised by John's choice which was both healthy and, from the description in the menu, likely to be a large portion. He tilted his head at John, who shrugged.

"I guess deciding I'm broken fixed my appetite."

"Mm."

"Ah, yes. The 'Nick avoiding an argument' sound."

"I asked you a question."

"I said," John answered with all the grace of a petulant child. "What if I said I were done?"

"Simon and I would hire a new bassist and we'd move on."

John blinked at the instant answer. "Just like that?"

"Well, no, I expect we'd argue about it for a bit." John began to tear tiny shreds off his napkin. "What's brought this on? Poor album sales?"

"I don't know. I just haven't been feeling..." John's fists tightened over his place mat. "Complete," he finally settled on. "I miss Roger and Andy."

"They're not coming back."

"No."

Nick rolled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. "Shall we hire Warren and Sterling? Would that help? Or is this Renee fallout?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I don't think so."

"So positive."

John's eyes supplied the vulgarity as their laden plates were placed before them. They ate in silence, both doing little more than picking at their meals as an excuse to polish off three bottles of wine. Nick supposed his curry was quite good; it certainly cleared his sinuses right up.

"Does anything touch you?" John asked, setting his once-again empty glass down with a rough thump.

"Maybe I don't believe you're ready to leave us quite yet."

"Yet?"

Nick leaned back in his chair and studied John as he would study an unusual specimen in a jar. "Yet. You've been gearing up to leave for a while, John." He blinked, slowly, and finished the wine in his glass. "And contrary to what you seem to think, I've no interest in 'controlling' your life enough to see that you don't."

John leaned forward, his elbow knocking his glass dangerously near the edge of the table.

"You're awfully fucking sure of me."

"So prove me wrong."

They stared at each other until John blinked and looked away. Nick sighed and rubbed one hand over his face.

"You've smeared yourself."

"Thank you." Nick ran his thumb beneath his lower eyelashes and raised an eyebrow at John, who was pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Better."

The silence spread before them. Nick wondered what Taji was doing.

"Nick?"

"John?" Nick shook his head, slightly, and then yawned, hugely.

"You're not going to tell me, are you."

"Nothing to tell. Nothing left to say it's all been said, and then some. She's gone to New York with Taji , again, and we'll try and reconcile, again, and nothing will come of it, again. Eventually one or the other of us will get tired of the process and we'll divorce."

"Fatalistic." John frowned. "Again?"

"I don't care to explain." John looked at him, both of them bleary, then gave a curt nod. He stretched out a long arm to catch the attention of their waitress.

"Who's paying?"

"Your suggestion, you pay."

"Fine."

John handed her his credit card without looking at the bill; they sat in silence until she'd brought the receipt back and he'd signed it and put the card away.

"You'd really replace me that easily?"

"Nothing's that easy, John. Are we hiring Warren and Sterling?"

"Simon will be furious if we don't ask him."

"Simon will get over himself."

They walked out into the late English light, everything temporarily gilded.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Promise me one thing?"

John looked down at Nick, who was looking calmly back up at him; his facade firmly back in place. "What's that."

"When you do leave, take time to straighten yourself out."

"There's nothing wrong with me." John muttered, but couldn't meet Nick's eyes.

"Of course."

Nick stepped off down the street, not waiting for John to pace him.


	5. Liberty

"Have you seen Johnny?"

Nick looked over his notes at Simon. "He was out back, smoking, last I saw of him."

"Smoke-" Simon's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and he swore creatively. "Didn't we just get him out of rehab?"

"Apparently, it didn't stick. Warren, what key did we decide on for 'Liberty'?"

"Do you just not care at all?" Simon's scorn buried Warren's answer. Nick looked back up at him, coolly.

"He accuses me of exactly the same thing, Simon. Regularly." He straightened up, rubbing at the back of his neck, and guided Simon out of the room. "Of course I care. I also haven't any control over who or what he does."

"You could try talking to him about it."

"So could you." Nick's eyes were flecks of emerald. "Oh, wait. That would mean facing up to your own bad habits."

"And you've none, I suppose."

"This isn't about me, or my bad habits, Simon. It's about you, and John, and the fact that no matter how much the two of you insist that it's 'just fucking' he's more vulnerable to you than he is to me." Nick sighed. "If you want to try to intervene with him, fine. Just know that he's going to throw every one of your little indulgences back in your face. And come back in when you're done - we need those vocals laid down."

Finished, he turned on his heel, leaving Simon staring after him. With a sigh, the tall singer walked down the hallway to the back porch; he tapped lightly on the door before opening it. John had shifted away from the door and was staring up into the foggy night, eyes slightly glassed over.

"You need to take off your contacts," Simon observed. John glanced at him and shrugged.

"When don't they bother me?"

The question - half a complaint - startled a laugh out of Simon. "Why wear them, then? Men's glasses have come a long way..."

John gave him a disgusted look and leaned against the wall. "Not that far."

"Fine, Johnny. You're spoiling for a fight." He moved over to perch on the arm of a chair.

John shrugged, blowing a stream of smoke into the air. "Heard you and Nick."

"Oh."

"Pair of old hens, the two of you."

"If you say so."

"I do."

"Where've you gone, Johnny?"

"What?"

"Well, you're not really here with us, are you?"

"Then who's wearing my clothes?"

"I'm not joking." Simon got up and closed the distance between them; John lowered what was left of his cigarette to his side. "We're in a place where we could have the old power back, you know? Strong stuff we've got here. And you're sleepwalking." He reached up and caressed John's jaw. "So, I'm asking again. Where've you gone?"

John caught Simon's wrist in his free hand, jerking slightly away from the touch. "I'm here. Really."

"You haven't fought with Nick in a week."

"Well, I could go pick a fight with him about using, if you'd like."

"I'd rather the two of you fought about the music, if you must fight about anything." Simon sighed. "We did just get you out of rehab, John."

"I have it under control. Just like the two of you."

"Neither of us have ever tried to survive on a diet of coke and chocolate."

"Look, it won't get like that again, okay? I've learned my lesson."

Silence, then, "There's not a damn thing I can say to that without escalating this into a real argument. I'm not heartless like Nick, John."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John's eyes narrowed to thin slits without breaking Simon's gaze.

"It matters to me, what happens to you."

"Bullshit." John dropped Simon's wrist suddenly, as though the touch burned him.

"John-"

"Just...drop it, Charley." John's gaze shifted over Simon's shoulder. "You've got your wife, your family. It was fun. It's over."

"Because you say so?" Simon wanted to curse the betraying break in his voice.

"Because it is. We're not just a couple of bored kids anymore, you know?"

Simon stepped back, away from John. He fought to catch his breath, surprised at how the words hurt. John took the last drag off his cigarette, staring up into the sky, and dropped and crushed it.

"You know, John, you're right. We're not. We haven't been for years." Simon took a deep, steadying breath and took hold of the door handle. His fingers locked around it, the muscles in his arm tight. He looked back over at John's profile. "I'm still here when you need me."

He forced himself to pull the door open and walked inside, leaving John alone in the darkness.


	6. Medazzaland

Nick looked up from the mixing board. Simon stood in Warren's doorway, wild-eyed.

"Do you know what he's done?" he demanded. Nick set his headphones aside and glanced at Warren. The brash American was, uncharacteristically, silent.

"You owe me," Nick said to Warren, mildly. He turned back to Simon. "I know very well what he's done. He's left the band."

"And that's it?"

Nick stood and guided Simon out of the room to Warren's shrug. "Actually, I though it was rather clever of him."

Simon's eyes threatened to bulge out of their sockets. "Are you insane?"

"Not in the least." Nick rubbed at the back of his neck. "By choosing there and then to go public with his decision, he's made sure he can't suddenly back out. And he's made sure we don't believe he intends to."

"We'll just see about that. I’m going to fly out there and --"

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Nick said, stopping Simon mid-tirade. "You'll stay right here and get this damned album finished with Warren and I."

"And just how are we supposed to do that with a fourth of the band gone?" Simon snapped.

Nick shrugged. "The same way we finished 'Come Undone' when he refused to join us. Warren is perfectly capable of laying down a bass track. So am I. We take the loss and move on."

Simon finally collapsed into a chair and scrubbed his hands over his head. When he looked up again his hair stood up in a crest of spikes.

"This is somehow my fault."

"No."

"Nick --"

"No."

Silence.

"What, then?"

"He's been unhappy for a long time, Simon. Frankly, I think all the Taylors left us at once. John just wasn't strong enough to go his own way, then."

"And now?"

Nick's laugh was more than bitter. "I haven't spoken to him about it, of course, but my suspicion is that he's decided that we're not healthy for him. And he's ready, now, to go it alone.

"Truthfully, I think he would have left us after The Wedding Album, if it hadn't hit the way it did."

"He loves to be the center of attention."

"And he hates it." Nick perched on the arm of the couch, studying Simon.

"You're so sure we can do this."

"We managed before."

"That was different."

Nick's eyebrows raised. "You didn't think so at the time."

"Fine, Nick, *this* is different, then. John..."

Nick took pity on him. "I know, Simon." He sighed. "All the more reason to prove you can do it without him."

"You wouldn't say that about Yasmin."

The smile was much gentler. "No. But your relationship with her is much less...competitive...than with him."

Simon echoed Nick's sigh. "Do you ever get tired of being right?"

"Would you?"

Simon rolled his eyes. "Point taken. How is it that neither of you were surprised by this?"

"You think we weren't?" Simon's look spoke volumes. "We've our spies, Simon. Besides, I've known this was coming."

"How long?"

"Since New York."

Simon's jaw dropped, then closed with a clacking of his teeth. "Almost fifteen years."

"Yes." Nick kept his expression neutral in the face of Simon's wonder. "I told him in New Orleans that if he left we'd hire a new bassist and move on."

"How'd he take that?"

"He took it."

Simon sat, chewing his lips, then looked up at Nick.

"All right. We’ll finish it, but I’m working under protest. It’s not going to feel right without him."

"I know, Simon." A smile played about Nick's lips.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You bastard. You and him bet about this."

"Only about it getting you back here and working."

"Fine," Simon grumbled, drawing himself to his feet. "Can't be proving you wrong, after all."

"No, Simon. You can't."


	7. Strange Frequency

"Last man standing, is it? Odd. That's not how I remember things."

John glanced over, surprised to hear the low Brummie drawl on the set. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Playing messenger boy," Nick's voice was rich with amusement, "as I happened to be in the area."

"Convenient, that," John responded. "Let me get this glop off my face."

The tiniest quirk of a smile on the corner of Nick's mouth was all the answer John got. He breezed off the set and down to his dressing room.

Nick was leaning on the wall outside the door, chatting up one of the female staff when John rejoined him. Nick looked up at him, one eyebrow arching. "That hairstyle's not flattering, John."

"Sod off. Excuse us," he said to the girl, taking Nick's arm and guiding him to the elevator. Nick waited until they had stepped into the elevator and the doors had closed to speak.

"You look good, otherwise," he observed, only just suppressing laughter. "Have I congratulated you on your marriage yet?"

"Yes. You sent that perfectly tasteful but utterly useless piece of sculpture as a gift."

"Ah, yes." The elevator doors slid open. "Where are we going?"

John paused, off-guard. "Don't know. Somewhere you can explain."

Nick shook his head, mood shifting to sober. "Your automobile? Do you need to get Atlanta?"

"Valet, and no. Amanda has her right now."

Nick nodded, now wearing his thoughtful face, and gestured John out of the elevator ahead of him.

Fifteen minutes later they were sweating in traffic even with the air conditioner running on full.

"Private enough for you?"

John shrugged. "It'll do. What's this all about?"

"I told you. I'm playing messenger boy."

"And?"

Nick sighed. "He wants you back, worse than ever, John."

"This is not news," John said, darting the SUV into an opening barely big enough.

"No. There are two things that make a difference this time," Nick said. "Who was it said to me that they'd get a tattoo before they'd come back to Duran?" The question was mated to a pointed glance at John's bicep, and earned a noncommittal grunt in response.

"The other thing?"

"If he can't work with you, Andy and Roger again he's not interested in continuing. At all."

"Sell me another one."

Nick shrugged. "It's truth, John. He's already told Warren and Wes that Pop Trash was the last."

John's eyebrows raised. "So he wants the three of us back."

"Professionally, yes. For all I know, he's decided that it's a sensible financial move." Nick paused for John's bark of derisive laughter. "It could be that he's decided it's the only way to get you to come back."

Traffic opened up, and John drove in silence, darting from lane to lane.

"Why are you here and not him, then? If that's what it's about?" John paused. "And don't give me that 'in the neighborhood' bullshit."

"Sweet-talk me some more, John, see where it gets you. I _was_ more-or-less in the neighborhood, and he called me last night." Nick paused. "He's far too proud to beg, of course, but he managed to make it very clear to me that _I_ was to talk to you about returning to the band."

John decided to take the next exit, never mind that they were two lanes over. "Returning to the band."

"I believe he assumes you've seen the Behind the Music by now, and that the rest could easily go unsaid. I, on the other hand, know perfectly well that if you're not slapped upside the head with it, you'll miss it completely."

John shook his head. "Charming."

"Accurate."

"I got it, Nick. Really. I think most of the fandom got it, too."

"We're adults, John. Perhaps we could handle this like adults, rather than teenagers?"

John pulled up to Valet; they were silent as they entered the hotel.

"Dinner?"

A faint smile played about Nick's lips. "We do tend to discuss these things over food."

John looked down at him. "The restaurant here's not bad. It has better lighting than the last few we've dined in."

The smile turned into a pronounced smirk, and Nick gestured John to lead the way.

Settled, with menus in front of them and inconsequentials about the variety offered out of the way, Nick spoke again. "What would you like me to tell him?"

"Has he really fired Wes and Warren?"

"Oh, not in so many words, no. I'm much less likely to accept something like that as easily as he accepted our hiring of Warren in the first place, after all." Nick sipped at his water. "But he was quite adamant about quitting himself unless the five of us were working together again."

"Roger's up for it?"

"He seems to be. He's come 'round a few times. We've had some good talks about what happened then, what he's up for this time...ideas he's had since working with us on 'Thank You.'"

"He's been bored."

"Other than working with Free Bass and raising his children, yes."

"And Andy?"

Nick laughed. "Please, John. Andrew's habit of collecting lawsuits and terribly gothic apartments has put him in a bad spot, financially. Of _course_ he's up for it, though in his case I'm certain it's mercenary and not nostalgic."

John leaned back in his chair just in time for the waitress to take their orders. When she left, he absently rubbed his thumb along his jaw below his ear.

"Don't ask me what's in this for you, dear," Nick said. "You know the answer to that as well as I do."

"I suppose you're still unsigned?"

Nick raised his eyebrows. John rolled his eyes. "Of course you are. Not that I've done much better."

"I think that a reunion will draw interest."

"And what do _you_ get out of this? You could go off with Steve."

"I could, this is very true. I don't, however, want to." Nick sighed. "And don't start with my apparent lack of feeling about this one way or another. You've been stateside too long, John. I don't wear my heart on my sleeve."

"No. You still seem terribly bloodless most of the time."

"What are we talking around this time?"

John pursed his lips. "Nothing, I don't think. Or no one specific thing, anyway. Simon."

"He hasn't changed much at all, John, if that's the question you're asking."

"I've heard the reports. Although Warren's demonstrated enough bad behavior for the both of you, if you ask me."

"Did I?"

John laughed. "No. You didn't."

"Are you even considering what I've asked you?"

"We've not talked much in a while, Nick. Forgive me for wanting to catch up."

"This is catching up?"

Silence as they were served, and began eating.

"What changed between the two of us? When did this rift appear?"

"We grew up, John. We grew apart. It happens."

"Are you ever anything but cold? It's not normal."

Nick shook his head. "We were famous before we were legal, John. We never had any hope of normal."

"I suppose that explains your blondes."

Nick's lips twitched. "There needs to be an explanation? Madeline wanted marriage and children. I didn't. Tara was a lot of fun. So is Meredith."

"Not a lot of love, there."

"Which brings us right back around to the beginning of this conversation."

John exhaled, heavily. "I don't know, Nick. Gela ..."

"It's your friendship he misses, as much as anything," Nick said, gently. "You know, and I know, that you needed to step away from being 'that guy' for a while. For you, that meant leaving Simon behind to try and figure out who 'John' really is. He never understood that."

"'Okay, go off and wander.'" John quoted, softly.

"Are you ready to come back again?" Nick's smile was faint.


End file.
